This is the heartfelt story of a father navigating the challenges of raising a severely autistic son. One particularly overwhelming day—filled with work stress, a difficult morning, and no time for himself—he went for a run to clear his head and was struck by a car. Thankfully, he survived with minor injuries, but the experience left him reflecting on his life.
He shared how raising his son brings constant challenges: financial strain, sleepless nights, and missed plans. Yet, it’s the little moments—his son’s spontaneous hugs and pure affection—that make every sacrifice worthwhile. He encourages other parents to focus on these unique joys, as they can bring light even on the hardest days.
The Day I Almost Didn’t Come Home: Advice for Parents of Autistic Adults
You know that feeling when you wake up and your brain’s already in the red zone? That was me a few years back.
After another night of Michael’s 3 AM, 4 AM, and finally 5:30 AM wake-ups, I was running on fumes. My 35-year-old son doesn’t talk, can’t tell time, and wears adult diapers. And that morning, he was in rare form.
The humming started before my coffee was even brewing. Then came the pacing. Then the meltdown over… hell, I don’t even remember what. My wife Kay had that look in her eyes – part sympathy, part “better you than me.”
By 7:00 AM, I’d already changed two adult diapers, cleaned up spilled juice from the kitchen floor, and had to physically prevent Michael from banging his head against the wall because I couldn’t find his favorite blue cup. The blue cup. The only one he’ll drink from, and somehow it had vanished overnight.
Meanwhile, my phone was blowing up with work emails. Something about a deadline I was going to miss. My back was killing me from where Michael had grabbed me during last night’s 3 AM episode. And Kay, God bless her, was trying to help, but she’d been up all night too, and we were both running on empty.
This is the part of autism parenting that no one sees. The relentless, grinding, everyday struggle. The moments where you’re so tired that you find yourself staring at a wall, wondering how the hell you’re going to make it through another day. Another hour. Another minute.
The Escape
By 8:30, I’d reached my breaking point. The blue cup was still missing. Michael was still agitated. My boss was still texting. And I just… couldn’t.
“I need some air,” I muttered to Kay. She just nodded, that weary understanding in her eyes. After three decades of this life, we’ve developed a shorthand. She knew I wasn’t running away – just running to catch my breath before diving back in.
I grabbed my bike – my escape hatch on wheels – and hit Shoal Creek Trail. The morning was crisp, few people around. Just the sound of my tires on the pavement and my breath coming hard and fast. I pushed myself until my thighs burned and sweat stung my eyes. Uphill, downhill, pushing harder when the memories tried to catch up with me.
For a glorious hour and a half, the only problem I had to solve was the hill in front of me. No diapers. No meltdowns. No complicated care plans or IEP meetings or medication schedules to manage. Just me, the bike, and the trail.
I stopped at the turnaround point, stretching my aching muscles, feeling the sweat cool on my skin. For a few precious minutes, I felt almost normal. Like the guy I used to be before autism took over our lives. Before “Dad” became synonymous with “caregiver.”
But here’s the thing about running from your life: your life always catches up.
The Moment Everything Changed
On my way back, feeling almost human again, I was crossing at the MoPac underpass. One car stopped for the crosswalk, a middle-aged woman in an SUV. I gave that little thank-you wave that cyclists do. Never saw the Honda coming in the other lane.
There was a screech of tires. A flash of blue. Then I was on the ground, my bike twisted beside me, pain blooming in my shoulder and leg.
Next thing I know, I’m sprawled on the pavement, a skinny kid standing over me, white as a sheet. Couldn’t have been more than 17, probably on his way to high school. “I didn’t see you, sir, I swear to God I didn’t see you,” he kept saying, voice cracking. Poor kid looked like he was going to pass out.
People were gathering, someone was on the phone with 911, but all I could think was: Michael’s gonna stand by that window all day waiting for me. He always does that when one of us is late – stands by the front window, rocking back and forth, sometimes for hours.
And then it hit me, this crystal-clear thought: What if I hadn’t gone home at all? What if that car had been going just a little faster, hit me just a little harder?
Half a second. That’s the difference between me going home banged up or not going home at all. Between Michael waiting at the window for hours or waiting forever.
The Shift
As I sat there on the curb, letting some stranger in running clothes check if my pupils were equal, this weird calm washed over me. All that morning’s bullshit – the sleep deprivation, the meltdowns, the endless grind – it all just… shifted.
Someone brought my mangled bike over. The front wheel was taco’d beyond repair. The kid who hit me was sitting in his car, head in his hands, his father now on the scene, talking to the police. I should have been angry. Should have been thinking about insurance claims and bike repairs and hospital bills.
Instead, all I could think was: I get to go home today.
I declined the ambulance. Got the kid’s insurance information. Shouldered my broken bike and started the long limp home, each step a reminder that I was still here. Still breathing. Still able to go back to my complicated, exhausting life.
The pain was sharp and insistent – road rash on my knee, something definitely wrong with my shoulder, a headache blooming despite the helmet that probably saved my life. But with each limping step, I felt more awake, more present than I had in years.
The Homecoming
As I slowly rode home, I couldn’t shake the feeling of how fragile life can be. I thought about Michael and Kay, and what life had turned into for us. Raising Michael hasn’t been easy—he’s still profoundly autistic, still relies on adult diapers, still needs our care every day. His world is chaotic, and sometimes it feels like the weight of everything is too much. There’s no manual for raising a child like Michael, and the challenges are relentless.
But as I reflected on it all, something clicked. Yes, life is hard. Yes, parenting Michael is a full-time job with no breaks, no vacations, and no sick days. But there’s something else too—something I often forget in the grind of day-to-day life.
The Blessings Hidden in Stress
The unconditional love Michael shows me, even in the face of his own struggles, is a blessing in disguise. His way of communicating—without words—has taught me to see the world through a different lens. It’s a gift that many people never experience.
Okay, so, 2025? I’m trying to chill out more. Seriously. Life’s a lot, you know? But when I’m losing it, I think about Michael. He’s taught me so much, like, real patience and empathy. And honestly? It’s the little things, his hugs, his smile, that make all the difference. They remind me what’s important when everything else feels overwhelming. Just love, and being strong. That’s the plan.
Managing Stress as a Parent of a Severely Autistic Child
Okay, so, let’s be real. Being a parent of a kid with severe autism? It’s hard. Like, “I haven’t slept in three years” is hard. We all have those days (weeks, months…) where we just feel like we’re drowning. I get it. But something I’ve learned (the hard way) is that even in the chaos, there are these little sparks of joy, these tiny blessings. Here’s what’s helped me survive (and sometimes even thrive):
First, self-care. Ugh, I know. Everyone says it, but it’s true. You have to take care of yourself, even if it’s just for five minutes. Seriously. A hot shower, a chapter of a book, a walk around the block – whatever fills your cup, do it. Don’t feel guilty about it. You deserve it.
Second, find your tribe. Other parents who get it. Because let’s face it, nobody else really does. Whether it’s a support group, online forums, or just a friend who understands the struggles, it’s a lifesaver. Knowing you’re not alone? Game changer.
Third, celebrate everything. Like, even the tiniest things. A new word, a hug, a smile – those little moments are huge victories. They’re what keep us going. They’re proof that progress is happening, even if it’s slow.
Fourth – and this is a big one – try to find something good. I know, I know, some days it feels like you’re searching for a unicorn riding a bicycle while juggling flaming torches. But even in the craziest moments, there are little things. A giggle, a snuggle, maybe even just a hot cup of coffee that you actually get to drink while it’s still hot. Cling to those. They make a difference.
And finally, seriously, get help if you need it. Talking to someone – a therapist, a counselor, whoever – can be a lifesaver. It’s helped me so much with the stress and just, you know, feeling like a real person again, not just a frazzled special needs parent.
Look, parenting a special needs kid? It’s a marathon. A really, really long, uphill marathon with no finish line in sight. Be kind to yourself. You’re doing amazing, even if you feel like you’re failing most days. You really, truly are.
Conclusion: The Blessing Within the Struggle
Okay, real talk. Parenting a kid with severe autism? It’s a rollercoaster. Seriously. Highs, lows, moments where you’re just like, “What am I even doing?” and then, out of nowhere, these pure, joyful moments that just make everything worthwhile. It’s…a lot. But one thing I’ve learned is that yeah, it’s stressful, it’s hard, but there are so many blessings too. The love my son gives me? It’s everything. It reminds me what life’s really about. So, next time you’re feeling totally overwhelmed (because we all have those moments), just take a breath. Think about your kid. Think about that crazy, amazing bond you share. It might not be the life you planned, but it’s your life. And it’s full of real, messy, beautiful emotions, deep connections, and a love that’s so big, words can’t even touch it. And that? That’s pretty damn special.
Transcript
Mike Carr (00:06):
Well, we’re back again, and I wanted to talk about stress. I think we all face a lot of stress, and with the profoundly or severely autistic son or daughter, we’ve got stress coming out our ears. So a couple of years ago, it was that long ago, but it’s an interesting story. I was really feeling overly stressed one morning, hadn’t gotten to work out for a day or two. Work was not going well. My son, Michael, who’s severely autistic, was having a bad morning. I needed to go run. And so I knew my wife was down there taking care of him, working with his colleagues, doing the grocery list, all the things that she does with her magic touch, and I didn’t care. I needed to go run. So I hopped on my bike, went over to Shoal Creek Trail, rode down to Town Lake here in Austin, Texas, and over to the trail head on Veterans Drive underneath the MoPac Bridge.
(01:09):
And it was a glorious six and a half mile run. Felt great afterwards, had a long stretch. Took me about an hour and a half and I was ready to ride back knowing that Cade probably handled everything by now. So I was coming back at a good time. Michael was off with his colleague, and I wouldn’t have to deal with any of that like the responsible dad that I am. So I hop on my bike and I glance to the left, there’s a car waves back, and that’s no big deal. I glance to the right and there’s another truck coming the other way on Veteran Drive. And so I start riding down the street and there’s a really well marked crosswalk right underneath a MoPac where the trail head begins, and I’ve crossed that many times. And so I’m on the side laying there and fixing to turn into the crosswalk ever so slightly.
(02:01):
And I glance back and wham, I have no idea what happened. The next thing I remember is I’m flat on my back daze, not really knowing what just happened. My left shoulder’s, numb arms, numb leg, hips numb. I tried to get up and a couple of joggers came over to see if I could, could help me. They saw what happened and some guy was yelling, that car blew right through. The crosswalk didn’t even stop. Well, it turned out it was high school or Austin High is just down the street. And he did stop his car a couple hundred feet past the crosswalk, but he finally stopped and he ran on up and all white and pale and shaking. Oh my God, I didn’t see you all. I didn’t know what was going on. And it turned out I wasn’t really hurt. I was a little banged up and bruised, and my bike was still functional.
(02:58):
Believe it or not. I think it snapped a cable. But other than that, it was actually rideable. And so everybody calmed down. I decided to ride home slowly and on my way home, I thought about had I been half a second sooner or a second sooner, I might not be telling you this story right now. How lucky I was to survive that because it could have put an end to my life, quite frankly, as fast as he evidently was going, and I wouldn’t have been all the way in the crosswalk. I probably could been stopped part of the way, but I would’ve been in enough to have certainly gotten a direct hit on a big chunk of my body. Anyway, I thought about, okay, I’m lucky to survive that. And I thought about everything else. One of those come to Jesus moments and my son and my wife and what it’s like leading a life with a child that you never planned on having.
(03:59):
You were never really ready to take on all those challenges, right? Dads that are watching this right now, and moms too, how much work it is, how much effort, how much money, how so many of those plans change and vacations that you’re planning, you can’t have. I mean, there’s just a lot, right? There’s a lot of stress. There’s a lot of things that sort of pile up. And I was thinking about this and I was also thinking about, but as an example, my son came up early this morning, got up a little bit early, and I was in the office. I have a home office, walked up the stairs, stinky because he wet his bed again. He wets his bed almost every night, 35 years old, still wears adult diapers, which he wets through. We’ve got a lot of things and we still haven all that problem.
(04:50):
Problem walks into my office, puts his arms around me, gives me a big hug, and I hugged him back. He’s nonverbal, but he wanted to tell me, I love you, dad. And you think about all the problems your friends have with normal teens and normal adults. And yeah, there are challenges with your autistic son and daughter, but there’s also that honesty and that just unbridled emotion, whether it’s giving you that big hug or that goofy grin or taking you by the hand, which he does sometimes. And he leads me to his puzzle box because he wants a puzzle. Those moments are pretty darn special. And so one of the things I’m trying to do in 2025 to de-stress when I get overwrought is just take a few breaths and think about, yeah, my son isn’t normal, or your daughter isn’t normal. They’re profoundly or severely autistic, but they’re sort of better than normal, right?
(06:02):
They’re better because they show you their raw emotion. They let it all on their short sleeve. And when they love you or when they need you, whether it’s with that big hug, even though he is stinky or taking you by the hand, or that goofy grin or that crazy laugh, how much you’re needed and how important you are in their life, and how their life has really changed yours for the better. So my recommendation, what I’m asking you to do, the next time you have that high stress moment, and you’re maybe thinking how unfortunate it is that you’ve been saddled with a profoundly or severely autistic son or daughter, and step back and think about how special they are and how, even though it’s a challenge, it’s also a blessing. And hopefully that’ll help you manage that stress a little better. Talk to you again next week. See you.
